


THE GIFT

by BlakeFrost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 14:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13366845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlakeFrost/pseuds/BlakeFrost
Summary: It's Christmas day again at 221B Baker Street.  The present that Molly had for Sherlock in "A Scandal in Belgravia" finally gets opened.  But what could be inside?





	THE GIFT

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sherlock-ian Things FB group's Story Prompt Challenge, for Challenge #8.3 - What was in the gift box Molly had for Sherlock? It is a one-shot story.
> 
> Obviously, I did not create any of the established characters, scenarios, details, or lines from either the Sherlock BBC or ACD canons which are used herein.

**_ THE GIFT _ **

**by** **_Blake Frost_ **

 

It was Christmas again at 221B Baker Street.  No, I mean it was actually Christmas.  There was a wreath on the door, garland strung everywhere, and even a decorated Christmas tree.  Multi-colored lights adorned the windows, walls, and, of course, the tree.  Even the skull sitting on the mantelpiece was wearing a Santa hat.  Molly and Lestrade had come, and of course John and Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft was there.  Outside was cold and snowy, but, with a roaring fire in the fireplace, inside was warm and cozy.  Everyone was in the holiday spirit.  (Almost everybody, anyway.)  Well, at least they were trying their best to be so.  You see, this was the first Christmas at 221B Baker Street since Sherlock had jumped from the roof of Bart’s Hospital.

“Why are we doing this?” Mycroft complained.  “We never do this.”  Mrs. Hudson was buzzing about him as he sat in Sherlock’s armchair.  She was trying to affix a set of felt reindeer antlers onto his head, but he kept swatting her hand away.

“Behave, Mycroft Holmes,” she chided him.

“But I hate Christmas.”

Always the mothering type, Mrs. Hudson softened her tone.  “Look, I understand it must have been difficult for you after ... after ...”  She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.   “I know his loss broke your heart,” she continued.  You may not think so now, but being around the people who loved him the most will honestly help you.  We have to stick together, and we’ll get through this.  I promise you.”

Just a few feet away, John sat in his own chair, glaring at Mycroft.  Why did Mrs. Hudson have to invite him?  And she hadn’t just invited him; she had insisted that he come.  (Even Mycroft knew not to argue with Mrs. Hudson.)  But he was the one who had blabbed to Moriarity about Sherlock’s entire life story.  He was the reason that Sherlock was … gone.

Mrs. Hudson gave up on the reindeer antlers and walked over to John.  “John, need a cuppa?” she asked.  It was as if she could tell what he was thinking.

John did not answer.  Instead, he said, “I told you that I couldn’t come back to the flat just yet.  It’s still too soon.  But I did it for you.  You were like a second mother to him.  I know that you loved him like he was your own son.”  He put a comforting hand on hers, but then quickly pulled it away.  “But why did he have to be here?” he hissed loudly, while once again glaring in Mycroft’s direction.  “He doesn’t even want to be here.  Why did he bother coming?”

“John, you mustn’t look at it like that.  Sherlock was his brother.  Just try to think about how he feels.  He might not show it, but he must be hurting on the inside.  I know that you blame him for what happened, but we need to be there for him.  Think of the guilt that he must be feeling.”

“But Sherlock was my best friend.  And now, because of Mycroft, Sherlock is … isn’t here anymore.”  He still could not say it.  He could not say the words “Sherlock is dead.”  He did not want to believe that it was true, and saying it would be admitting what actually happened.  “I’m angry,” he said bitterly.  “And quite frankly, right now I couldn’t care less about what he’s feeling.  So what if he feels guilty?  He should.  This was all his fault.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at John sadly, wishing that she could do something to make him feel better.  Just then, there came a ringing of the doorbell.  She excused herself to go answer the door.  A minute later, she came back up the stairs, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.  “I’m so glad that you could make it,” she was telling them as they walked into the flat.

Mycroft looked up and, seeing them, rolled his eyes.  “Oh God,” he muttered.  Mrs. Holmes had on a stereotypical “ugly Christmas sweater.”  Mr. Holmes wore a bright, shiny red sequined bowtie.  It was like they did it just to embarrass him.  “Mother, Father,” he said with a forced smile.  “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Mycroft!” Mrs. Hudson and John snapped at him simultaneously.

“We wanted to see you on Christmas,” said Mr. Holmes.  “But you never want to come to us.  So, when Mrs. Hudson invited us, we decided to come to you.”

Mycroft gave Mrs. Hudson a despairing look, as if to say, “Why would you do such a thing to me?”

“So, Mikey,” asked Mrs. Holmes, “how have you been doing lately?  You never call us to talk anymore.”

“‘Mycroft’ is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end of it.”

“Hush it, you!”  Mrs. Holmes patted Mycroft’s face and then kissed him on the cheek.  Mycroft looked like he wanted to die of embarrassment.  Mrs. Hudson giggled merrily, while Molly and Lestrade tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress their smiles.

“Well, Mikey,” Lestrade asked cheekily, “won’t you introduce us?”  This time, John actually cracked a slight smile.

“Yes, of course, sorry,” said Mycroft.  “Mother, Father, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Dr. Molly Hooper, Dr. John Watson, and apparently you’ve already met Mrs. Hudson.”  He pointed to each of them in turn, without even bothering to rise from his seat.  “Everyone, these are mine and Sherlock’s parents – who were supposed to be visiting friends in Oklahoma this Christmas.  I wasn’t expecting to see you.  Why didn’t you warn me that you were coming?”

“We wanted to surprise you,” said Mr. Holmes.

“And what a pleasant surprise it was,” Mycroft said disingenuously.  “I’m just so delighted to see you.”  He smiled falsely.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes walked about the room shaking hands.  Molly gave them each a big hug and a happy smile.  Lestrade told them how sorry he was for their loss.  And John said how nice it was to finally meet them.

Now that everybody had arrived, it was finally time for the festivities to begin.  Everyone had their Christmas drinkies of one kind or another.  Many stories were told, sometimes of an embarrassing nature.  More often than not, the conversation turned to Sherlock.  What a brilliant mind he had had.  How much of an obnoxious arsehole he could be sometimes.  But most importantly, how he had, on multiple occasions, helped everyone there in one way or another.  And of course, how much he was loved and missed.

Soon enough, it was time for Christmas dinner.  Everything was laid out on the dining table.  (Mrs. Hudson had long ago packed all of Sherlock’s scientific equipment up into boxes and thoroughly cleaned the table.)  But, as there was not enough room at the table to eat, everyone brought their plates into the living room.  They settled into whatever chairs were about and ate off of trays set upon whichever small tables were at hand.

Mrs. Hudson had made a wonderful roast turkey with all of the trimmings.  The turkey was a bit small for so many people.  (It had to be in order to fit into the oven in Mrs. Hudson’s tiny kitchen.)  But with all the extras that came with it, there was more than enough food for everybody.  After everyone was sufficiently stuffed, the desserts came out.  The Holmeses had brought a homemade mince pie with them.  And Molly had made dozens of festive Christmas cookies.  Pretty soon, everybody had eaten so much that they could not eat another bite.  Everyone except for Mycroft, that is, who kept picking at his food.  Christmas was ruining his diet.  He could almost hear Sherlock’s voice in his head saying, “Putting on weight again?”

Pretty soon dinner and dessert were over, and everything had been cleaned up and put away.  Everybody then filed back into the living room and gathered around the tree to open gifts.  The packages under the tree were neatly wrapped in colourful paper and adorned with ribbons and bows.  But they did not stay that way for very long.  As soon as the presents were handed out, everyone tore into them like little kids on Christmas morning.  Molly had gotten Lestrade a novelty mug that changed images when filled with hot liquid.  John received a soft and fuzzy pale green cable knit sweater from Mrs. Hudson.  Even Mycroft was included in the gift-giving bonanza.

Picking up one long, thin package, Mycroft saw what was written on the label and rolled his eyes.

“What does it say?” asked Lestrade.

Somewhat stiffly, Mycroft read out the inscription.  “To our little boy – Love, Mummy and Daddy.”  (They really were trying to embarrass him, were they not?)

Lestrade tried hard to swallow his laughter, while Mrs. Hudson giggled openly.  “Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Mrs. Holmes asked Mycroft.

Almost unwillingly, Mycroft tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box therein.  Inside the box, neatly folded, lay a purple silk tie with a black umbrella print design.  A matching gold umbrella tie pin completed the look.

“Put it on!  Come on, put it on!” everybody called out.

“I think not,” Mycroft said sourly as he put the box aside.

There were looks of disappointment all around, but there was no time to dwell on the subject.  With loads more presents to unwrap, everyone got back to work.

After a while, the pile of gifts under the tree had dissipated.  “Was that all of them?” Mrs. Holmes asked, looking a bit crestfallen.  “Are there really no more?”

“Hang on, let me have a look,” said John.  He cleared the carnage of used wrapping paper and packaging material out of the way.  Then he got down on the floor to take a closer look under the tree.  There he saw, way back at the base of the tree, one single present left.  He pulled it out from under the tree and stood back up.  “There’s just this one more gift,” he said, holding it up.  He brushed a thick layer of dust off of the top of the present. 

“That’s odd,” John thought.  “Why would there be dust on it?”  And there was something eerily familiar looking about this particular gift.  It was perfectly wrapped in beautiful red paper and tied up with a gold bow.

“Well, come on,” said Mr. Holmes.  “Don’t keep us in suspense.  Who’s it for?”

John opened the attached card.  “Dearest Sherlock – Love Molly XXX,” the card read.  John was so surprised, he almost dropped the present.  With the gift still in his hand, he turned and gave Molly a questioning look.

Molly, who up until then had not really seen the present, gasped sharply when she got a good look at it.  “Wh-where did that come from?” she stammered.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson said suddenly.  “I put that there.  Sorry, I forgot.  I found it on the bookshelf in Sherlock’s room.  He never let me dust in there.  I wanted to get things packed away and cleaned up.  But then I couldn’t face letting the place out.  Anyway, I saw that it had never been unwrapped.  So I thought that it would be nice to put it under the tree.  That way, we could remember him at Christmastime.  It would be like he was here with us, if only in our hearts.”

“And what a lovely thought it was, dear,” said Mrs. Holmes.

In that moment, there was more than one pair of misty eyes in the room.  Quite a few sniffles as well.  After a brief moment of silence, Lestrade spoke up.

“Well,” Lestrade said uncertainly, “should we open it?”

John looked once again towards Molly.  “Y-yes,” she said hesitatingly.

“Okay, then,” said John.  “But who should do the honours?”

“Why don’t you open it, John?” Molly asked.  “He was your best friend after all.  And I know how much he meant to you.”

“No, no.  I couldn’t,” John replied.  “Somebody in his family should do it.”

Mycroft groaned audibly at the mere suggestion.  His face seemed to say, “Not another one to unwrap.  Wasn’t one enough?”

“That’s okay, John dear,” Mrs. Holmes said.  “You go right on ahead and open it.  He would have wanted you to.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” said John.   He untied the bow and set the ribbon aside, then carefully unwrapped the box.  Next, he neatly folded up the wrapping paper and put it off to the side with the ribbon.  He then took the top off of the box and folded open the tissue paper that was around the object inside.  Removing the gift from the box, he held it up for everybody to see.  It was a beautiful dark blue cashmere scarf with the monogram of **_W.S.S.H._** embroidered on it in red thread.

“Oh, that’s just lovely, Molly,” said Mrs. Hudson.  “And I know that Sherlock would have loved it if he was here.”

Everyone else agreed that it was a wonderful present to have gotten for Sherlock.  Then the conversation turned to what to do with it.

“Well,” said John, “I would say to put it on the skull.  But seeing as the skull has no neck, that probably wouldn’t work very well at all.  Sherlock would have thought it was a ridiculous idea, anyway.  Although I’m sure that he would have appreciated the thought, even if he didn’t show it.”

“What about putting it on the tree?” Molly asked.  “At least until the holidays are over, anyway.”

Everybody thought that adorning the tree with the scarf was a marvelous idea, so that’s just what John did.  He folded the scarf in half, then looped it around the top of the tree, just below the golden star.  Next, he pulled the ends of the scarf through the loop created by the fold.  He then arranged the scarf neatly so that the monogram of Sherlock’s initials was left showing at the front.

The mobile phone cameras came out, and pictures were taken of the scarf on the tree.  Lestrade made a cheesy joke about the tree being dressed like Sherlock now, and there were giggles all around.

Now that all the unwrapping was done, the Christmas gathering began to wind down.  Mycroft was the first to get ready to leave.  It was like he just couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Outside, heavier snow had begun to fall and the wind was blowing harder.  A lone figure was standing across the street, bundled up against the winter weather in a long dark coat.  He stood looking up through the decorated front windows of the flat, watching the festivities going on inside.  The weather grew harsher still.  So he turned his coat collar up against the wind and tightened the scarf around his neck.  A text alert on his mobile phone sounded, barely audible over the howl of the wind.  He pulled the phone out of his coat pocket and opened the message.  Seeing the picture that the message contained, he smiled a sweet, yet sad smile.  Then, just as the first guest was leaving the gathering, he ducked behind a corner and disappeared without a trace.


End file.
